


Crystallize

by imsuchamess



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon Typical Violence, Dreams, Manipulative Hannibal, Other, all monsters r enby Confirmed, dark!Will, mystical creature/non-human hannibal, not necessarily canon, pretentious art stuff, who uses they/them pronouns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-04 05:15:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14585739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imsuchamess/pseuds/imsuchamess
Summary: warnings: cursing, blood, gore, monster stuff, graphic description of a corpsecan be read as a series of dreams that canon will has as he realizes who hannibal is Or as a mystical, creepy winter au full of symbolism





	Crystallize

**Author's Note:**

> music rec for this fic: thorvalsdottir's luminance (i) and serenity (ii)
> 
> art references: creation of adam by michelangelo, lucifer by franz stuck, the sculpture to be lost in the forest by hans arp
> 
> if u look up the goddess peitho tw for sexual assault mention

Will leans against a tree, panting. The frigid night air stings his lungs, his remaining warmth escaping in misty exhales.  A frozen pond sits just before him, the only feature that interrupts the endless, shadowy woods and foreboding fog for miles around, its flawless surface beckoning. He’s tempted to run his fingers across the smooth ice, to gaze into its reflection. His heartbeat is erratic, his vision clouded, but he senses the gaze of something, someone, somewhere. He clutches the aspen like the handle of a dagger.

Blankets of snow smother all noise, erasing every snapped twig, every birdsong, every single sign of life from existence. The impossibly quiet landscape threatens to swallow Will up. He desperately wants to scratch at the aspen’s bark, stomp his feet, scream—anything to remind himself that he’s  _ alive _ —but the winter has seeped into his brain, sunken into his bones. He doesn’t dare move.

The reddened skin of his bare hands is striking against the whitish bark. It seems possible that, if he held onto the tree long enough, his fingers would freeze in place, and his body would become just another tree branch. Will absently wonders why he didn’t bother to wear gloves, and then abruptly realizes that he has no idea where he was before he found himself at the edge of this frozen pond, who he imagines is crouching just beyond his line of sight, or why he can’t seem to catch his breath. 

As if in reply to his unspoken questions, the fog hovering above the pond begins to blacken. He chokes out a curse. The inky clouds meander towards him and he scrambles backwards, his heel catching on a root and sending him flat on his back. The snow does nothing to cushion his fall, and his body slams against the cruel, raw earth. 

The mist surges forward, bubbling and expanding and  _ reaching.  _ It takes the shape of a snake, darker than night, that slithers towards Will and wraps around his ankles. He watches in horror as the snake extends its jaw, bones cracking and scales splitting. Out of its mouth steps a vicious wolf, an enormous stag, a pitch black beast.

Will blinks.

A person crouches beside him. They’re shrouded in a deep sapphire cloak, the silken material falling over their eyes, a halo of shadow encircling their head.

“I must offer my sincere apologies; it’s been quite some time since a human entered this forest, and I forgot how unaccustomed you are to...” they licks their lips and smile, revealing rows of knifelike teeth, “...the  _ unusual _ .”

“Who, and  _ what _ , the fuck are you?” Will’s voice wavers—a pathetic contrast to the other’s echoing timbre.

“You may call me Hannibal,” they reply, “Tell me, what did you see in the reflection of my pond?”

“ _ Nothing. _ I- I don’t know,” he gulps, catches the other’s slight scowl, and reconsiders his answer, “I didn’t really get a good look, but I  _ wanted _ -”

“You wanted to see?” 

Will nods as they stand, towering above him and extending a gloved hand. He places his palm in theirs, his own uncovered hand seeming as frail and absurd as Adam’s, and is lifted to his feet. He hastily brushes snow from his clothing, body aching with every movement, until Hannibal speaks again.

“You must learn to follow your instincts, Will.”

“How do you know my name?” He shivers as the black mist returns, invading the edges of his vision. Hannibal’s grin flashes wickedly in the swelling darkness.

“Were you not molded from the earth in my own image?”

* * *

Will is completely, utterly lost. A pathetic, shivering thing at the mercy of the winter, traipsing through an endless, dark forest. Trees attempt to catch him, tearing his skin and clothes with their claws, and the sky above offers nothing but vast, meaningless twilight. Each cloud of silvery fog dissipates to reveal more mist, more woods, more solitude. With every labored breath, a little more of his strength escapes him. His legs threaten to give out. The unyielding silence of the night is the only reply to his feeble cries for help.

The falling snow feels like needles against his frostbitten face and hands. He imagines that he has become a grotesque, winter voodoo doll that staggers around the towering aspens, blood trickling from the tiny icicles jutting out of its skin. The ruby droplets fall like tears, landing in the snow beneath his feet—a macabre trail of breadcrumbs. Will almost turns around to follow the blood left in his wake, to navigate back to his beginning, and then someone calls his name.

* * *

Hannibal lingers on the edge of the pond, loose cloak billowing in a nonexistent wind. The deep blue silk folds endlessly into itself, barely grazes the snow below, and leaves only Hannibal’s mouth and gloved fingertips visible. Peitho, clothed in night, urging Will ever closer.

“Are you alone in these woods?” Will asks, and the weight of Hannibal’s answering grin forces him to look down. He grinds his boots into the snow, crunching and smashing the layers of frost until he imagines the invisible ice crystals have broken into lone molecules, shapeless and free.

Once Will dares to lift his gaze, Hannibal removes their hood, revealing a face like shattered glass, sparkling in the moonlight. Sleek brown hair. Piercing red eyes. Their surroundings begin to melt away, and suddenly they are Stuck’s vision of Lucifer—power and terror personified. The heat of their omnipresent gaze forges iron shackles that tether Will in place. There’s no hope for escape. Will inhales sharply, and the icy air rips through his lungs.

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

And so he is.

* * *

“Hello?” Will croaks, throat stinging as if he’s been screaming for hours.

“This way, Will,” the voice replies from somewhere up ahead. It’s deep and purposeful, muting the agonizing cacophony in his mind with the clear ring of a gong.

He takes one step forward, and then hesitates before a particularly dense cloud of mist. If he continues on this path, weaving through the seemingly endless woods towards whoever is waiting in the darkness ahead, will he be any less lost? He envisions the landscape twisting, spilling, congealing with Will’s body— _ sculpture à être perdu dans la forêt _ . 

An acute fear of abandonment, of ceaseless wandering, of everlasting isolation, trickles down his spine. The forest will consume him; he will never be found.

“I’m coming.”

* * *

“It felt like somebody peeled back the curtains, and I caught a glimpse of the performers waiting onstage,” Will says as phantoms of draping red velvet and harsh spotlights emerge in his mind. The conductor of an unseen orchestra taps their baton against a metal stand.

“Waiting for you to watch, or waiting for you to join?” The baton strikes melt into Hannibal’s voice, reverberating off of the frozen trees and into Will’s trembling soul.

Will looks at his hands, caked with blood, and sighs. If these puffs of condensation, squeezed from his lungs and gone in an instant, could dissolve congealed crimson, his heartbeat would settle and his memories would clear. All would be normal again: simple, clean, safe _.  _ He bites back a grimace.

“Just because I understand theatre—the props, the costumes, the lines—doesn’t mean I want to  _ become  _ an actor.”

Hannibal frowns, unspoken truth stretched over their cheekbones, and sighs deeply. Will imagines they’re attempting to exhale the invisible traces of his lies, the unacceptable bits of Will that float in the air. His anger sparks. Hannibal behaves as if they know every dark crevice of Will’s brain; icy gloved fingers digging into white and gray matter, positively insulted when they extract something that displeases them. 

“I don’t understand what you  _ want  _ from me,” he says, unable to hide his indignation.

“I don’t want anything from you,” Hannibal replies as the dark mist returns, radiating off of them and towards Will, “I want  _ for _ you.”

The fog completely envelopes Will in a cold embrace, distracting him from Hannibal’s saccharine tone. All at once, his fiery aggravation turns tepid, and he is left with nothing but guilt swirling in the pit of his stomach. He regrets his words, his misunderstanding, his selfishness.

For one absurd moment, he considers cracking open his own skull. He could gift his entire brain to Hannibal, but what would he ask for in return?

Hannibal simply smiles, already clutching a gnarled, bleeding mess of brain matter in their fist.

* * *

Will surges forward. The searing pain in his legs begs him to rest, but the trees seem to bend away from him, encouraging him to press on.

“You’ve almost reached me.” The rich voice nestles inside his ears, underscored by his pounding heartbeat—an unmistakable sign that he is alive, that he has a purpose.

“Where are you?” he cries out, his words soaked with desperation and excitement, “ _ Please _ , I’ve been alone for so long.”

“Don’t worry, my darling boy. Soon enough, you’ll never be alone again.”

Something shatters inside of him, and thrusts a feral, broken scream from his throat. He no longer feels the burn in his muscles or the ache in his lungs; he just needs to keep running.

Finally, the aspens part, and Will stops to lean against a tree at the edge of a glimmering frozen pond.

* * *

Will pretends that it’s nothing but a dead animal.

The carcass is suspended from a tree, coiled in thick rope that extends up and over a lofty branch, the end held firmly in Hannibal’s hand. Its skin is swollen and bruised, a watercolor masterpiece of blacks, purples, greens swallowing the brownish twine that threatens to tear the corpse apart. Hannibal tugs the rope, hoisting the body even higher, and Will swears he can hear the tree creak and groan from the terrible strain. A delighted gasp dances on his tongue as deep, rusty red gushes from the body, fragile skin shredded by the frayed rope.

“Do you accept my gift?” Hannibal asks, razor-edged curiosity slicing through Will much easier than the rope could.

“The word ‘gift’ implies something freely offered out of pure generosity. This...” Will’s fingers twitch, desperate to touch the now blood-soaked rope, “This is bait—the proverbial carrot tied to the end of a stick.” Hannibal purses their lips as if they actually need to mull over his blunt response.

“Why would I need to lure you?”

Will steps closer, occupying their space, sharing their air, blue eyes drinking in red.

“You don’t.”

Will is done pretending.

* * *

Will swallows their words, their veracity sliding down his throat all too easily.

“Can I look again?”

Hannibal’s smile widens as they nod, gesturing for Will to approach the pond once more. They stand beside each other at the very edge of the ice, and Will gazes downward.

His face is reflected in the frosted mirror, reddened and chafed, snowflakes dusting his long eyelashes and tangled curls. There’s something wild in his glacial eyes; the crackle of electricity, a low growl, a brewing storm. The image is both familiar and foreign.

“What do you see?”

Hannibal’s face appears beside his own. Their silken veil has fallen to their shoulders, and their swirling, inky halo accentuates the peaks and hollows of their commanding visage, echoing the features of the pitch black beast. Reflected eyes stare back at him with pride and intrigue; Will knows exactly what they see.

“Us.”

**Author's Note:**

> responses of any kind r greatly appreciated <333


End file.
